


Black Coffee, Cherry Pie

by lafiametta



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Diners, F/M, Modern Setting, References to Past Domestic Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-11 12:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7050574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafiametta/pseuds/lafiametta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was just a waitress with a talent for baking. He was just a stranger who had walked in out of the rain. Nothing could possibly come of a chance meeting like this, could it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It had rained all morning and into the afternoon, the sky an unrelenting gray, tiny beads of precipitation trailing down the windows that faced the street beyond.

Maybe the weather had driven everyone away, but whatever the reason, the diner was deserted, giving Demelza little to do but stand behind the counter and wait for someone, anyone, to come in. She didn’t like it, though, being idle; she would have preferred to have something to do with her hands, something to fill her with a sense of purpose or activity. If there was anything she had learned from her momma, who had raised seven children, it was that there was always something that needed to be done. She had half a mind to empty out the refrigerated display case and give the whole thing a thorough scrub-down – Judas God, it surely needed it – but that could probably wait until closing, when there was no chance a customer could walk in and see her gauntleted in rubber gloves, brandishing around a steel wool pad like some kind of weapon.

From back in the kitchen she heard the faint hum of voices and then a peal of laughter, coming, unmistakably, from Jinny. The budding romance between the young waitress and Jim, their short order cook, was no secret, although sometimes Demelza had to roll her eyes at their lack of discretion. Just last week, she had walked in on the two of them in the supply pantry, Jinny pink-cheeked and happily pressed up against the piled sacks of onions and potatoes.

They were young, and it was sweet in a way, even though it meant that Jinny tended to linger in the kitchen far longer than she really ought to, which was less than helpful on days when they were busy or short-staffed. But for now, at least, it was quiet out front, and she didn’t see the harm in letting them continue to spend some uninterrupted time together.

Of course, she wasn’t actually their boss, even though it sometimes felt like it. Jud and Prudie, the owners of the diner, were almost never in, leaving Demelza to act as the de facto manager in their absence. She found she enjoyed the responsibility, making her think that someday she might want to try to open her own place, where she could choose the menu and decorate everything exactly the way she wanted it, with wide windows and jars of bright wildflowers at every table and votive candles they would light when it grew dark.

But that was just a dream, a fancy that lived only in her thoughts.

And what she had now was enough – a stable job, a clean and quiet place to live, a loyal friend who greeted her each day with licks and gentle nuzzles – and some days her heart was full to bursting with the realization of how much she had. Here, she had the peace of knowing that no one would touch her, that there would be no belts or raised hands, no one to bellow out her name with bourbon-laced breath. Here, she had the freedom to do as she pleased, to take long walks to nowhere in particular, to lay lazily in bed on the mornings she didn’t work and answer to no one for it. Here, she had herself – and Garrick, of course – and it was more than enough.

The front door of the diner swung open, pulling Demelza from her thoughts. Out of habit, she reached down towards the stack of menus underneath the counter, feeling the slick of plastic against her fingertips. Looking up, she could see that it was just a man, all by himself, but as soon as he took a few steps inside, it was clear how truly inadequate that description was.

He was tall, with tousled black hair curling almost to his jawline, and as he attempted to shake off some of the rain, she noticed that he was wearing dark jeans and a trim gray coat, both half-soaked. He glanced up at her, revealing a pair of intense and hooded eyes, the kind to draw you easily into temptation, like her momma had always warned about. He had a strong jaw, tapering to a narrow chin, all of it covered in a heavy dusting of scruff. Normally, she didn’t find much appeal in overgrown facial hair, but in this case she found herself more than willing to make an exception. His dark eyebrows arched up inquiringly, as if he were waiting for something, and it was only then Demelza remembered the menu she had clutched in her hand.

“You can sit anywhere you like,” she said, trying to turn her thoughts back to the notion that she was at work and as such ought not to be gaping at the patrons. “If you can find a place… as you can see, we’re real busy.”

He didn’t respond to her half-hearted attempt at humor, but just offered an acknowledging nod and began to walk over towards the tables by the window. 

She gave him a moment to extract himself from his wet coat and slide into one of the booths before she followed.

He waved away the menu when she offered it to him. “Just coffee,” he said, his voice rich and whiskey-warm. “Thanks.” 

“Sure,” she said, but left the menu for him anyway. It was always possible he might change his mind. 

Luckily, there was fresh coffee, so she grabbed the pot and a mug off the shelf and made her way back to where he was sitting. He glanced up at her quickly as she poured the coffee and nodded again as she set it down, but then turned his gaze over toward the window, at the rain-soaked sidewalk and the few people passing by under outstretched umbrellas.

“There’s creamer and sugar,” she said, nodding her head towards the far end of the table.

“I’m fine,” he said, the words clipped in polite dismissal. 

He wasn’t looking at her, but Demelza offered a quick smile anyway – mostly out of professional habit – and then she walked back towards the counter, leaving him to the company of his own thoughts. 

For a little while, she tried to busy herself, humming a song as she wiped down the counter for the twentieth time that afternoon, topping up salt and pepper shakers, doing anything else she could think of, but she couldn’t help herself from glancing over at him now and again. Honestly, it was such a cliché –  _tall, dark, and handsome_ – but there he was, all three, sitting in her diner, looking devastating and slightly dangerous as he stared out at the rain like the brooding hero of some old-fashioned novel. As time passed, though, she could sense that his serious demeanor wasn’t all for show: with the slight but noticeable furrows in his brow, he clearly had something on his mind, something making him… well, not sad exactly, but weary, as if whatever troubled his thoughts had become just a little too much to bear. For just a moment, she allowed herself to indulge in idle speculation about what it was – _money problems? stress at work? fight with his girlfriend? or his wife?_ – and then proceeded to chide herself for being so ridiculous. Certainly she had better things to do than stand around and fantasize about the preoccupations of the customers.

But still, for reasons unknown even to her, she found herself wanting to do something to help him, to relieve him of a little of his burden. It tugged at her, like a string pulled taut within her body, but what could she do? She was a stranger, some waitress in a diner he had wandered into, who certainly didn’t know the first thing about him or his problems.

But as she stood there, the rough outline of an idea began to form in her mind. Impulsively, she leaned across the counter, pulling the domed glass cover off of the display stand and grabbing the dish of cherry pie that sat on top. With a knife she carved a generous slice out of the half-circle left remaining and served it onto a small plate.

She had made the pie earlier that morning – she often came in before the diner opened so she could bake – and she knew, with a fair degree of pride, that it was good. It was a family recipe, one Demelza had learned at her momma’s knee. She loved the familiar paces of it: rolling out the crust, mixing the filling, adding in the cinnamon and vanilla, and the secret ingredient, almond extract. And then there was the smell, all warm and sweet with tiny notes of tartness as the juices bubbled up in the oven. It was just the thing to make anyone feel better.

Plate in hand, she strolled over to the row of booths; as she approached, he quickly shifted his gaze away from the window, his eyes – a stormy hazel, she noted – turning up towards her.

“What’s this?” he asked confusedly as she set the plate down in front of him.

“Pie,” she said with a small but knowing smile. “On the house.” Feeling slightly playful, she turned on her heel, not daring to glance back at him as she walked away.  

Only once she was safely behind the counter did she venture to glance over at him from underneath her lashes. She bit her lips together, suppressing a smile; it was a little hard to tell at this distance, but it looked like he had already eaten several bites.

Demelza watched in silent satisfaction as he made short work of the rest of it, until all that was left on the plate were a few bits of crust and smeared crimson stains from the filling. He wiped his mouth on a napkin and then proceeded to relax back into the cushions of the booth, reaching for his coffee and taking a long sip.

Was it just her imagination, or did he already look happier?

She set her attention back towards the counter, knowing that as much as she might want to, she couldn’t stare at him all afternoon, at his long fingers as they curled around the coffee cup, at the way a piece of his dark hair fell rakishly in front of his eyes, until he unconsciously pushed it back behind his ear.

The rain kept falling, a soft curtain of sound. She leaned back against the edge of the counter, crossing her arms against her body, her breath escaping in a quiet sigh.

After a little while, she glanced back over at him, realizing that he had almost finished his coffee. Grateful for something to finally do – and, if she were being honest with herself, an excuse to go talk to him again – she grabbed the pot and made her way over. 

“Refill?” she asked.

“Thanks,” he said, pushing the mug towards the edge of the table. He glanced up at her while she poured and then cleared his throat. “I have to say, that pie was excellent.”

She didn’t say anything, but just smiled and nodded, warmth flooding into her cheeks.

“Did you make it?”

“I did,” she admitted.

“My compliments…” He paused, turning towards her a little in his seat. “Can I ask why I was the recipient of such an offering? Or are you normally in the habit of giving away pie to unsuspecting patrons?” The edge of his mouth was curled up teasingly, and Demelza was finding it increasingly difficult not to stare at it.

“Honestly?” she said, with a small shrug of her shoulders. “You just looked like you needed it.”

That was enough to elicit a tiny grin, and all it did was make her want more.

“That easy to read, huh?” he asked, his eyebrows raised in slight amusement. “I’m Ross, by the way…”

“Demelza.”

“Demelza,” he repeated, and she felt a pleasurable flutter in the pit of her stomach as he voiced each syllable. “That’s one you don’t hear every day.”

“It’s a family name,” she said. “Cornish, I think.” She stopped, not wanting to talk – or even think – much more about her family.

“Well, Demelza,” he continued, “you were more right than you knew. It’s been a hellish day and I was clearly in need of pie.”

“That bad?” she asked. She wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, getting drawn into a conversation with him, but she was determined to make it last as long as she could.

“I’ve been forced to spend most of this afternoon running around in the rain, trying to find a wedding gift, of all things. I don’t know… I couldn’t really find anything I thought would work. And there’s not much time. The ceremony’s on Saturday…” He breathed out a small sigh of exasperation. “Here’s a question for you: what’s an appropriate gift to get for your ex-girlfriend and your wealthy cousin who she dumped you for?”

She paused, biting down on her lip. “The number for a good divorce lawyer?” she offered. 

It had been an impulsive thing to say, the kind of sharp quip that always seemed to get her into trouble, and just as quickly she was filled with the fear that she might have offended him. Thankfully, though, he grinned widely and laughed, a deep, resonant sound that warmed her to the very curl of her toes. Judas God, she had thought he was handsome before, so dark and mysterious, but it was nothing compared to what he looked like when he smiled. For a moment, his bright eyes caught and held hers, until she was finally compelled to glance away. 

“I was thinking maybe a blender…” he said, with a touch of sarcasm. “Nothing says, ‘Thanks for breaking my heart and making me watch while you do it’ like a blender. Or maybe a set of steak knives would be more fitting…”

He let out a long breath, tracing his thumb along the curved edge of the mug’s handle.

“I’m sorry…” He shook his head. “I really shouldn’t be talking to you like this. We barely know each other.”

“It’s alright,” she said. “I don’t mind.”

He nodded, giving her a tiny smile of acknowledgement.

“Here, sit down, if you want,” he said, nodding towards the empty seat across from him.

She hesitated, glancing around the deserted restaurant, despite knowing, of course, that there was no one around to notice if she were sitting down on the job. It felt slightly improper, as if she were about to cross some invisible line. Still, he had asked, and Demelza somehow got the sense that she would do just about anything he asked, if only to see him smile again and look at her the way he had, with his heat of his gaze warming her from the inside out. So she put down the coffee pot and slid across the cushion of the booth, feeling deliciously transgressive.

Once they were sitting face-to-face, though, it was clear that something had shifted, and she could feel her pulse begin to beat a little more rapidly. The thought came to her unbidden: _this is what it would be like on a date with him_ , _this is what they would do together_. She tried to push it away, knowing how stupid and silly it was of her to even imagine such a thing, especially when he all he had done was talk about his ex-girlfriend and his broken heart.

“So… do you even have to go to the wedding?” she asked, wanting to say something to break the quiet. “Maybe then you wouldn’t have to worry about a gift.”

“No such luck,” he replied. “I’m a groomsman.”

“Your cousin’s marryin’ your ex and wanted _you_ to be in the wedding?” she asked in disbelief.

“I know, right?” he said, rubbing his fingers against his forehead. “God, it’s going to be horrible. I don’t even want to think about it… Thankfully, the reception should have an open bar,” he added, as a tiny, tempting smile began to play on his lips.

“I’m real sorry,” she said. “Can’t be easy, bein’ reminded of someone when all you want to do is try to forget about them…” She couldn’t really imagine, though; she had never really had a boyfriend, much less gone through the pain of a break-up. She paused, struck by a horrible notion. “Oh, no, you don’t have to make a toast, do you?”

He shook his head. “I was spared that, at least. Francis asked one of his old college friends to be his best man. The guy’s in finance or banking or something… No, I just have to show up and look presentable in the photographs.”

She gave him a small sympathetic smile. Demelza had little doubt that dressed up – in a suit and tie, shoes bright with polish, his dark hair brushed back from his face – he would look more than presentable.

“The whole thing, it’s just so messed up,” he continued. “And I never even saw it coming. There must have been some way to see it coming…”

“People always end up showin’ you their true colors,” she said. “Or at least, that’s what my momma used to say. Maybe it’s good you found out now, rather than later.”

“Maybe…” he said, his voice trailing off. “You ever had your heart broken?”

“Can’t say that I have.”  _You would’ve actually had to fall in love in order to get your heart broken_ , she thought wistfully.  

“Well, it’s pretty awful,” he said, and then took a sip of coffee. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

He set down the mug, staring down at it before his eyes circled back to her again. There was something about him she was drawn towards, she realized, beyond the dark good looks and romantic sensibilities, beyond the roguish charm he no doubt presented to the world with practiced ease. Under all that, he had a heart – a good one, as far as she could sense, and she had always been one to trust her instincts.

“Okay,” she said, feeling her cheeks rounding with a smile. “Thanks for the advice.”

It grew quiet again, the air heavy with something she couldn’t even name. Demelza knew she didn’t have much experience with men – especially not with men like him – but she couldn’t help but think that he felt it, too. It was causing her heart to pound unsteadily against her ribs, the rhythm skittering astray each time she glanced over at him. And he was definitely looking at her, his eyes catching brilliantly in the light, and she found herself filled with a strange and overwhelming desire to lean across the table and cup his rough, unshaven cheek in her palm, if only to know what it felt like.

He grinned and glanced away, and just as quickly the tension broke.

“So,” he said, playfully drawing out the word, “I should probably get going… I still need to find a gift, after all.” He reached down towards his pocket and extracted his wallet, pulling out a bill and dropping it on the table. “Thanks for listening. And for the pie… it really was delicious.”

She nodded, easing herself out of the booth as she watched him stand up and put his coat back on. She could see that it was still slightly damp, the shoulders and the tops of the sleeves a little discolored where the rain had soaked in.

“It was nice to meet you, Demelza,” he said, as he tugged the sleeves down towards his wrists.

“Likewise… Ross,” she replied.

She didn’t know what else to say. Maybe that was all there was to say. It didn’t feel like enough, though, not with all the feelings tugging at her so insistently.

She was back by the counter, he a few paces from the door, when she finally turned and spoke.

“You should get them some candlesticks.”

“What?” he asked, his dark eyebrows knitting together in confusion. 

“For the wedding gift,” she replied. “Somethin’ simple, elegant. Says, ‘Yeah, you broke my heart, but I’m gonna be the better man about it’.”

He smiled softly, the warmth of it reaching to his eyes, and then he gave her a quick nod of his head, as an acknowledgement but clearly also a farewell. She could feel her heart sinking a little as he turned towards the door and took a step. He would walk out of here, she knew, and that would be that. She would probably never see him again. And she wanted to, of that much she was certain; whether she would even cross his mind after this afternoon, crowded as it seemed to be with unresolved thoughts of another woman, well, that was something else altogether.

But his step was hesitant, and suddenly he turned back towards her, a cautious, hopeful expression etched on his face.

“Demelza,” he said, the word like a song in her ears, “do you work here every day?”

“Most days,” she replied. Her heart was trembling, but she held his gaze firmly with her own.

“That’s good to know.”

He flashed her one last smile – a wicked, knowing grin set into the side of his mouth, powerful enough to make her breath catch in her throat – and then turned and walked out the door. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of his dark head through the windows before he passed out of sight, and then she could hear the door shut with a muffled hush.

She stood there for a few seconds, trying to regain her bearings. Everything seemed so silent and still, everything but her mind, which was still racing even in the aftermath of his departure. She needed something to quiet it, something to busy her hands with until she could find her way back to the place she had been before he walked in the door.

She was nearly to the booth, intent on cleaning everything up and putting it back into order, when she saw Jinny emerge from the kitchen.

“Somebody finally came in, huh?” Jinny asked, looking around at the empty tables as she made her way over to Demelza’s side.

“Yeah,” Demelza murmured. She found herself not wanting to say anything else about what had just happened, the chance encounter that still had her spinning; if no one else knew, then it could be like a dream, like a secret that was solely hers.

Jinny surveyed the table and then leaned over to grab the cash where he had dropped it earlier. “Just pie and coffee?” she asked, arching her eyebrows. “Nice tip.” She handed the money over to Demelza, who now saw that he had left her a twenty dollar bill.

Demelza smiled – a tiny thing, meant only for herself – and slipped the money into her pocket.

“Here, I’ll take these,” Jinny said, grabbing the menu and the coffee pot from off the table, and then she walked back towards the counter, leaving Demelza to gather up the dishes.

She stacked them neatly – mug and fork on top of plate, crumpled napkin tucked inside the mug – and then deposited them in one of the busing bins near the kitchen. Grabbing a damp cloth, she came back to the booth and began to wipe down the surface of the table. She found, as she worked, that her thoughts began to drift back to him, back to the color of his eyes, the way they brightened when he smiled. In her heart was a song, and she felt no shame as it quietly bubbled up onto her lips.


	2. Chapter 2

“Please kill me,” he whispered.

Verity had the decency to snort at his terrible excuse for a joke before she made a sharp shushing noise and quickly jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.

“I'm serious, Ver,” he continued, leaning closer to his cousin’s side. “There’s a dull knife right there, next to your plate. I'm sure you could saw through a major artery in a matter of minutes. I won't even try to stop you.”

“Don't tempt me, Ross,” she hissed. “Although if you keep talking during the toasts, the mother of the bride might be the more likely perpetrator.”

Ross gazed a few seats down along the length of the table, only to find Mrs. Chynoweth staring right back at him, her eyes narrowed in unvarnished distaste. Beth’s mother had never liked him, not even when he was dating her daughter, and now that she saw him as a little more than a walking bad memory, an interloper and possible impediment to her daughter’s pursuit of a successful husband, he was even less tolerable to her. _At least he had escaped having her as a mother-in-law_ , he thought. _Thank God for small mercies._

His attention snapped back to the croak of his uncle’s voice, coming from the far end of the table.

“…couldn’t be happier to have her in our lives. As you all know, Francis’s mother was taken from us far too soon. But I know she would be overjoyed to see that he’s found such a partner for himself, a beautiful, sweet, and loving woman, one he will cherish for the rest of his life…”

Ross couldn’t help himself: he glanced over at the happy couple, seated at his uncle’s right side as he stood, continuing to talk, wine glass in hand. They were beaming up at him, the picture perfect image of a man and woman about to be married, and Ross watched as Beth curled her fingers around Francis’s shoulder and left them to rest there in a way that conveyed both affection and possession. Her nails were newly manicured, with pale pink polish, if only overshadowed by the glittering diamond engagement ring that encircled her third finger. She leaned towards Francis and whispered in his ear, a soft smile playing on her lips, and Ross was ashamed at how much it still hurt to look at her. He didn’t want to think about the times she smiled at him like that, her eyes lit up with laughter, how it had felt to touch the pale porcelain of her skin and run his fingers through her caramel-colored hair.

“…so let us all raise our glasses to the lovely Beth… or, as of tomorrow, Mrs. Elizabeth Poldark!”

Seeing everyone else pick up their glasses, Ross reluctantly followed suit. “To Beth,” he mouthed, while the rest of the table uttered the toast in joyful unison.

It was only the rehearsal dinner, and already he wanted nothing more than to be put out of his misery.

The rehearsal itself had been bad enough, having to play the role of the reliable groomsman as they went through each part of the ceremony. Thankfully, he had been paired with Verity to accompany down the aisle, but after that he was on his own, forced to stand and watch as Beth slowly made her way towards the assembled line of bridesmaids and groomsmen, finally taking her place next to Francis. Ross still couldn’t believe they had asked him to be part of this, considering everything that had happened, and while Francis’s request could be attributed to his cousin’s utter obliviousness, a piece of him suspected that Beth’s insistence on his involvement stemmed from somewhere slightly more vindictive. They were rubbing his face in it, and whether done out of ignorance or intention, it cut deeply all the same.

He could have said no, of course, and a part of him wondered why he hadn’t. It would have looked petty, he supposed, and a refusal wouldn’t have gone over well with Francis or Uncle Charles, and besides, now that his father was gone, he didn’t have much in the way of family left. But as Ross watched while Beth and Francis briefly kissed at the end of the rehearsal, a prelude to the act that would follow the next day in front of all their invited guests and well-wishers, he had wondered if he hadn’t agreed in some part to punish himself.

His offenses were not so terrible, he knew, more of omission than anything else. Still, it didn’t make the combined weight of them any less heavy.

He could see now that he had taken Beth for granted when they were together, never fully considering what she might have wanted or her thoughts and ideas on questions relating to their future together. She had been an ornament in his life – a very beautiful one – and for three years she had played the role of supportive girlfriend to perfection. Even when he had taken a temporary consulting job overseas, a decision he had come to without asking her opinion on the matter, she hadn’t put up much of a fight, agreeing to a long-distance relationship for the time he would be in London. 

The email, sent nearly eighteen months after he had left, informing him that she didn’t want to do this any longer, that she was leaving him and moving out of their apartment, shouldn’t really have come as that much of a shock to him. But it did anyway.

Maybe he should have immediately flown home and tried to make things right. Maybe he should have realized what a negligent asshole he had been and told her how he felt, or made some grand romantic gesture in an attempt to win her back. But he had done nothing, made no gesture – in his heart, he probably knew she deserved better than him – and rather than returning, he threw himself into work and, when that wasn’t enough to help him forget his problems, cheap bottles of whiskey from the off-license around the corner. 

It was only through intermittent conversations with Verity that he had come to learn that in the following months Beth had been seeing more and more of his cousin Francis. Apparently, it had grown more serious, with dinners at high-end restaurants downtown, afternoons out on Francis’s sailing yacht, and appearances throughout the late summer and fall at various family gatherings. If anyone had wondered why she had moved from one Poldark into the arms of another, they had said nothing. Maybe everyone else wanted to forget he had been with Beth as much as she seemed to.

He had returned home right after New Year’s, just in time to hear of their engagement.

The days that had followed had not been particularly pleasant; it was clear that a part of him still loved Beth, and would probably always love Beth, even if he wasn’t _in_ love with her. Maybe, if things had been different, he would have married her. But all that was gone, and he had only himself to blame.

And then, a little more than two weeks after he had returned, Ross got the news that his father had died. It had been quick, they said, a heart attack in his sleep, the housekeeper finding him the next morning still tucked into bed. Ross hadn’t known what to feel – their relationship had never been particularly close – and at the beginning he had mostly found himself walking around in a state of hollow numbness. There had been all sorts of arrangements to make, of course, but when the time finally came to sort through the house, the sprawling red-brick mansion on the North Shore where he had grown up, he was surprised at how difficult it had been. Even now, months later, he hadn’t finished, but had simply left it to sit, the house unoccupied and its remaining contents gathering dust. Eventually, he would have to sell it – what could he possibly need a house like that for? – but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it yet. There had also been the question of his inheritance, some dizzying combination of investment accounts and high yield bonds and, of course, the sizable life insurance policy, but like the house, he didn’t really want to think about it that much.

Since she had left him, he hadn’t really wanted to think about very much at all.

The toasts were still going on, he realized, and, much to his dismay, the floor had been turned over to Beth’s mother. Hoping no one was paying much attention to him, he took a long drink from his wine glass.

“…me just say, on behalf of Jonathan and myself, how overjoyed we are to be gaining Francis as a son-in-law. All a parent ever wants for their child is for them to be happy, for them to love and be loved. For a little while, we were worried about Beth, worried that she was giving her love to those who were not worthy of it, or of her…”

She paused, and Ross stared intently at a tiny stain on the tablecloth, his jaw set on edge, not wanting to meet her gaze – or anyone else’s, for that matter.

“But then,” Mrs. Chynoweth continued, “she found Francis, who we know will love her and care for her in all the ways she deserves. He makes her profoundly happy – I’ve never seen her so happy – and I have no doubt he will do so for as long as they both shall live.” Raising her glass, a self-satisfied smile on her lips, she added, “To the future Mr. and Mrs. Poldark!”

Again, the entire table lifted their glasses and echoed the toast, and again, Ross wondered what the hell he was doing here, when every single part of him wanted to be somewhere else, _anywhere_ else, where he wouldn’t have to be continually reminded of everything he had done wrong and everything he had lost. He knew that it was too late to back out now, but he also had little confidence that he would be able to withstand another night of this, not without relying on fairly prodigious amounts of alcohol. 

With the toasts concluded, the table slowly drifted back into quiet conversation. During the lull, the waitstaff began to clear away dinner plates and bring out coffee and dessert, and just as a plate was set in front of him, Verity turned once more in Ross’s direction.

“You’re bringing someone, right?” she asked as she began digging into her tiramisu. “A date?”

“Why would I want to inflict all this on anyone else?” he sighed. “I just figured I’d keep you company and we could sit at some table and try to amuse ourselves as best as we can. I’m also planning on spending most of the evening drinking myself into a state of oblivion.”

“Well, as much fun as that sounds, I won’t be available to join in. Andrew’s coming. It’s my brother’s wedding and despite the travesty of a bridesmaid’s dress I’m being forced to wear, I’m determined to enjoy myself.”

“By inviting somebody your father and brother both actively despise?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Everyone knew how Francis and Uncle Charles felt about Andrew Blamey, one of Verity’s old law school professors, who she had started dating last year, much to the scandal of the family. Not only was he fifteen years her senior, there had been rumors that he had sexually harassed a member of the junior faculty at another university, although Verity had assured Ross that it was all just malicious gossip. He did seem to make Verity happy, though, and for that Ross was willing to overlook much of what was said about him. His uncle and cousin, however, were of a very different mind when it came to Verity’s relationship.

“Precisely,” she replied with a triumphant grin. But as she continued to look at him, he saw her face fall slightly, and she let out a short sigh. “Honestly, Ross, you can’t spend the whole evening being miserable. You should bring someone, show everyone that you’re over Francis and Beth and all of this bullshit… Someone _really_ pretty.”

“Why would it matter if she’s pretty?” he scoffed. “You think I have something to prove to Beth or anyone else?”

“No, but I think you could use the distraction.”

Ross let out a rough exhale in protest and rubbed his hand against his forehead. Bringing a date to the wedding was a terrible idea. Based on how tonight had gone, he had little doubt that he would be horrible company during the wedding itself, and while he was a lot of things, he wasn’t so much of a jerk as to invite someone out, only to make them sit around and watch him wallow in his own misery. And a pretty girl? Verity was out of her mind if she thought he could make one simply appear out of nowhere. And what girl would possibly take him up on such a last minute invitation?

And then he remembered her, the waitress from the diner. _Demelza_.

He remembered the cloud of her red curls, held back ineffectually in a ponytail as coiled strands of hair escaped along her brow and down the back of her neck. And her eyes had been so startling, the most brilliant sea-green color he could recall ever having seen. 

He remembered her accent, the soft twang that must have come from somewhere in Appalachia – Kentucky or West Virginia, maybe – somewhere with screen doors and swimming holes, where people sat on porches and slowly watched the sun go down.

And she wasn’t just pretty. She was the kind of beautiful girl who had no idea she was beautiful, which only seemed to make her more so.

God, talk about a distraction.

He had wandered into her diner randomly, just to get out of the rain for a while, and even so, she had been sweet, listening to his problems as if they possibly meant something to her. She had also been surprisingly helpful, if the gift-wrapped pair of Waterford candlesticks currently sitting in the trunk of his car were anything to go by.

For a moment, he imagined what it might be like to bring her with him to Francis and Beth’s wedding, what she might look like in a slinky dress and high heels, her hair cascading artfully over her shoulders and around the long line of her neck. He wondered if she knew how to dance, if she would laugh softly as he put his hand on the small of her back and tried to dip her while the band played out the last notes of a song.

But he couldn’t be seriously considering this, could he? Aside from her name – and the color of her eyes, apparently – he knew nothing about her, nothing beyond what they had shared in a brief conversation. And she was a waitress, in a diner, who he had met _yesterday_. It made no sense, and why would he possibly think she would have any interest in coming with him to the wedding in the first place? She had smiled at him, of course, but she probably did that for everyone who walked in the door. And then he remembered the flash of pleasure on her cheeks as she had brought him that piece of pie, the sympathetic ear she offered as she sat across from him in the booth, the way her shy, curious gaze had caught his and transformed itself into something far more combustible.

Ross looked at his watch; it was half-past nine. He wasn’t sure when the place closed for the night – or if she’d even be there – but if he hurried, he could make it there in about twenty minutes.

“Hey, Ver, I have to run, okay?” he said, rising from his chair. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Where are you going?” she asked in confusion.

Ross grinned, perhaps for the first time all evening. “I’m taking your advice.”

He offered a polite but hasty farewell to his uncle and to Francis and Beth, and was nearly to the door, when suddenly a figure stepped in front of him, blocking his path. He looked up to see that it was Francis’s best man, George something-or-other.

“Didn’t get a chance to formally introduce myself earlier, during the rehearsal,” he said, extending his hand. “George Warleggan.”

Ross grasped the other man’s hand in his own and shook it. His grip was surprisingly strong.

“Ross Poldark.”

George nodded slightly, offering Ross a thin-lipped little smile. His gaze, though, was flat, betraying nothing, not even a reflection of the light above their heads.

“So, Francis was telling me that you might be in need of some financial advising…”

“I’m sorry?” Ross sputtered. He had no idea why Francis would be talking to anyone about his personal issues.

“Well, he said you had come into a bit of money lately…”

“My father died,” Ross replied brusquely, his brow furrowing. If the guy was going to be this direct, Ross had no problem doing the same.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” George replied, although the clipped efficiency of his tone seemed to convey less-than-heartfelt condolences. “At some point, though, you might want to think about possible investment opportunities. There are lot of exciting things happening in the market these days. Don’t want to miss out.”

“And that’s what you do?” Ross asked, unable to keep a hint of derision from his voice. “Watch for exciting things?”

“My firm has a lot of different interests. For our clients, though, we always want to make sure that their money works for them, not the other way around.” He paused, as if waiting for Ross to respond. That was probably what happened next in these sort of exchanges, Ross realized, but he was in a hurry, and beyond that, in no mood to continue the conversation.   

“Here, why don't I give you my card?” George said, as he reached into his jacket pocket and handed Ross a crisp white business card. _The Warleggan Group_ , it read. _George Warleggan, COO_. There was an address below – a newly-developed building downtown – followed by a phone number. “That’s my direct line. Call me next week, we’ll set up a time to talk.”

“Thanks,” Ross said, as slipped the card into his pocket and walked away. He had no intention of calling next week or setting up a time to talk or having much to do at all with George Warleggan beyond the ceremony tomorrow. Undoubtedly, there had to be something appealing about the man for Francis to want him to play so large a role in his wedding, but for the life of him, Ross had no idea what it might be.

Quickly making his way outside, he located his car where he had left it in the lot, and for the next twenty minutes tried his best not to speed too much or race through any lights. Most of all, he tried not to think about the possibility that the diner might be closed already or that she might not even be working there that night. As he parked across the street, though, he could see that the lights were still on, even if there appeared to be few people inside.

He pushed open the door and walked in, hoping to see her standing behind the counter just as he had the day before. Instead, he was greeted by a young woman with dark eyes and wavy reddish-brown hair, a tiny slip of thing who couldn’t have been more than five feet tall.

“Sorry, sir, we’re just about to close…” she offered.

But Ross wasn’t really listening. Instead, he rapidly cast his gaze around the room, looking for that familiar head of red curls. And near the corner, standing by a table as she stacked ketchup bottles and salt and pepper shakers onto a tray, he found her.

She looked surprised to see him – not that he could blame her – but as he walked over, he watched her stand up a little straighter, smoothing out the short white apron that was tied around her waist. Her hair was pulled back again, and she had on jeans and striped yellow shirt, the long sleeves pushed up almost to her elbows.

“Demelza… hi,” he said, wishing he had something better to say now that he was finally face-to-face with her.

“Hi,” she repeated, and then she bit against her full bottom lip. He stared, for a moment finding it difficult to recall his own name, much less the words that might make up a response.

“So, um… do you have a minute?” He glanced back behind him, seeing no one else but the girl behind the counter, who was staring at the two of them with nearly open-mouthed fascination.

“Sure… we’re just closin’ up. I was just...” She looked down for a moment at the table, at the collection of items on the tray. “It’s nothin’. It’ll wait. What’d you want to talk about?” There was the barest hint of a smile on her lips, her eyebrows raised in curiosity.

He grinned nervously, a tiny breath of a laugh escaping from his lips. Coming here, standing in front of her like this, it seemed so strange and awkward, but at the same time he somehow felt completely at ease, the same way he had during their conversation the day before.

“You remember how I told you about that wedding I have to go to, the one tomorrow…?”

“Yeah,” she said, nodding a little.

“Well…” He paused, glancing down at the ground before he gazed back up at her again. “I guess I was wondering… if you didn’t have other plans, whether you might be willing to come with me.”

Her eyes narrowed in confusion. “You want me to come with you, to the wedding tomorrow… as your date?” she asked. There was a hesitancy to her voice, and he guessed that she was probably trying to think a way to say no to him without appearing impolite.

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” he stammered. “It’s totally last minute… I probably shouldn’t have asked…”

“Okay,” she said quickly, cutting off the flow of his words. 

“You’ll come?” he asked, surprised at her response, and then at the sense of warm relief he felt expanding through his chest. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized how much he had wanted her to say yes.

She nodded again, this time more a little more vigorously, those sea-green eyes shining in the light as her cheeks began to round with the curl of a smile.

“Great. So, uh…” He pulled the first thing from his pocket – a business card – and with a pen from his jacket wrote his cell phone number on the back. “Here’s my number. Text me with your address and I’ll come pick you up around five. They’re having it at a hotel downtown, so there’ll be dinner and dancing, with a band…” Ross realized he was beginning to ramble, so he shut his mouth and handed her the card.

“Okay,” she said, as she gave it a glance and slipped it into the pocket of her apron.

“Alright, then,” he said, letting out a rough exhale. “It’s… it’s a date. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” she repeated.

And then she smiled widely at him, everything in her face alight with unalloyed happiness. He had no idea what he had done to merit such a reaction, but he couldn’t help but smile back, their eyes drawn so easily towards each other that it was only with great reluctance that he was able to eventually turn around and walk out the door.

 _It’s a date_ , he repeated to himself as he strolled back to his car. A strange sensation of lightness began to course through him, and Ross realized with a shock that it was excitement. Stranger still was the discovery that he was now actually looking forward to an event that less than an hour ago he would have given just about anything to avoid. As he settled into the driver’s seat, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and dropped it into the center console. Out of curiosity, he turned it on, looking to see if there were any new notifications. Nothing yet, he noted, but it was still early. And then all he could do was shake his head and laugh at his own foolishness.


End file.
